by Hugh Howey
“Son, I been doing this a while,” Laurence said, he started to make a subtle motion for the gun. “Seen many a fella like you. Enough to know that when a man comes into a shop to look at a gun such as this, he ain’t lookin’ to steal or to scare… he’s lookin’…”
“To hurt someone?” Odd Man said. “I’m not looking to hurt anyone. I’m an enthusiast. I like guns and if you don’t mind my saying sir, you have a very excellent collection here.”
“Thank you.”
“You ever shot anyone?” Odd Man asked.
“Excuse me?”
Laurence thought the man’s eyes were getting glassy.
“You ever point a gun at a man, look him in the eye… you find out who you are.”
Laurence could feel something moving the hairs on his neck and involuntarily he placed a hand there to scratch it away.
“I haven’t fired a gun since I was a kid to be honest with you.”
Odd Man gave his little nod again and set the rifle back down on the counter.
“I simply came in to look,” he said. “I just ordered a gun from this magazine I subscribe to. It’s probably not much, but I can’t afford a nice gun like you have here. I wanted to see how it felt in my hands is all.”
“Nothing wrong with browsing, son. I’m sure you got yourself a fine gun.”
“Let’s hope so. It was a pleasure to meet you…?”
“Laurence,” he said extending his hand. “Laurence Brenner.”
Odd Man smiled as he took his hand, it looked strange on him.
“Nice to meet you Laurence. I’m Lee. Lee Oswald.”
Derek Neville
has been a cynic ever since he found out the dish ran away with the spoon. He has been making up stories since he can remember, thanks to a very overactive imagination. Some of his short-story work has seen publication in school magazines and short-story contests. He is heavily influenced by the works of Richard Matheson, Michael Chabon, Bernard Malamud, Neil Gaiman and Brian K. Vaughan just to name a few. He currently resides in New England. You can find out more on his website.
Derek Neville’s Website
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New Adult — Romance
Quiet on Set
D.D. Parker
I ran into my dorm room and slammed the door shut, hearing the cheap wood crack. A cockroach scurried under the couch. I broke down. It was the first time I ever felt so defeated. The moment of walking into Sean’s apartment to see him bent over some other girl broke me. It broke everything that I was made of. My own foundation was shattered.
"You OK?" Topher said, my less than supportive, overweight, xbox obsessed roommate.
"Yeah, I’m fine," I said through sobs.
"OK. Just checking." He waddled back to his room.
Sean cheated on me. My boyfriend of two years found someone else to fuck and I was left to pick up the shattered pieces under my federally funded ceiling. I called my best friend, Ryan. He always knew what to do.
"Hey, Jess, what’s up?"
I explained everything through more emotional sobs.
"I’ll be right over."
He showed up at my doorstep with a box of Willy Wonka nerds and the blue-ray of Inception. I knew I could count on him. We both hugged as I cried some more into his shoulder. He gently nudged me in the direction of the stained couch and sat me down, massaging my tense neck.
"Listen. You’re better than that asshole," he said, not mincing words.
"Yeah," I sniffled, trying to make myself believe it.
"You have bigger things to worry about, that job interview is tomorrow and it can open up so much for you," he said, bringing me back to reality. I couldn’t be messed up for tomorrow. Not if I wanted my life to change. Not if I wanted to be someone in this world and not some girl living with a guy named Topher.
We watched Inception while gorging on nerds and before we knew it, we were both asleep. The next morning came with sunlight through the tiny window. I shot up just before my alarm was about to ring. I quickly put on my interview suit, told Ryan to make himself breakfast, and let myself out. The memory of Sean inside some other bitch suddenly sent a stab through my heart, but I composed myself and focused on what was ahead. My interview at Connors and Gold, the biggest film production company in the world. It was where I want— no. Where I needed to be. And today I was interviewing for an assistant position for the Vice President, the perfect way to get in.
I couldn’t mess this up.
I walked into the beautiful office building and signed in at the front desk. I didn’t wait long to be guided into a meeting room where I sat for a few minutes until the doorknob clicked. I looked up and felt my breath escape me. Standing there was Lance Gold, the CEO of the whole place. The guy who called all the shots. And the guy who was straight out of my dreams. He was built like a true man. A perfect man. Broad, strong shoulders. Thick biceps. Squared jawline. Powerful thighs. A stubby half-smirk of a smile. His eyes, those damn sapphire blue eyes. He was bad news. The effect he had on me was shocking.
Wait… why is he even here?
My rational side began to think. Why was the CEO in the same room as a lowly job candidate? For an assistant position no less.
"Jessica Turner?"
He said my name and I saw fireworks go off.
"Yes," I squeaked, my confidence waning in front of this powerfully impressive man.
"I’m Lance Gold, nice to meet you." He stuck out his formidable hand, wrapping his firm grip around my frail, paler hand. He took a seat in front of me, his navy blue shirt highlighting his eyes just perfectly.
"I understand you’re here for a position as an assistant?" he asked, his voice soothing yet deep, a little gravely.
"Yes, but I believed it was with Tyler?"
"Yes, unfortunately he filled his spot yesterday and forgot to cancel the rest."
"Oh," I said, feeling slightly crushed all over again.
"But my assistant just moved on today, so would you like to interview for the spot?"
I was floored. This was more than I could have ever dreamed of. I said yes and the interview went flawlessly, well at least I thought it did.
"Thanks for coming," he said, standing up and walking over to my side of the table. He put a hand on the small of my back, right on the crook just above my butt, that sent chills down to my toes. Before opening the door to let me out, he turned to me and smiled, a shockingly disarming smile.
"I feel bad making you wait. That’s why I’m telling you now; you’re the last candidate I want to interview. I want to offer you the position now."
Shock couldn’t explain the feeling as I had the sudden urge to jump and shout a hooray. I kept my professionalism, "Thank you so much, Mr. Gold."
"Thank you, Ms. Turner. There’s something special about you. I don’t say that to a lot of people, but I feel it with you," he said, his smile growing as he looked at me. Like really looked at me. I was so scared to admit it but there was a spark there. Something neither of us could deny.
"You’ll start tomorrow if that’s OK?"
"That’s more than OK."
And with that, I was hired into an incredible position, forgot all about that douchebag I called a boyfriend, and may have been falling in love with my super powerful boss.
Oh shit.
D.D. Parker
lives on the perpetually sunny west coast with a fat cat and an affinity for Netflix marathons intermixed with Game of Thrones binges. Writing is Parker’s passion and always has been since the ripe age of twelve, when Parker hit the internet and spent hours roleplaying as fictional characters, writing stories, and creating adventures. Today, Parker writes New Adult fiction after years of reading Young Adult and wanting something exploring more mature themes. Parker’s debut White Coat series can be found at most online ebook retailers!
D.D. Parker’s Website
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Beyond
Keith Rowland
The darkness closed in around the small group that huddled close together for protection. The flickering light from their torches held the oppressive uneasiness away, but only for fleeting moments. Shadows danced ominously in every direction, catching their attention, making them think they were being watched from the darkness. They waited, listening to the echoing sound of dripping water somewhere off in the distance. Another noise caught their attention, a scraping sound; they turned as one and peered into the darkness waiting for some beast to come at them. Relief swept over the group as Chazeen appeared at the edge of the light clutching her bag tightly.
‘I’ve found another,’ whispered Chazeen excitedly as she hurried towards them.
The group gathered around her lifting up their torches higher to get a closer look at what she held. Many of them gasped as they saw the words and pictures in the book.
‘Where did you get that?’ The voice was accusing.
‘You know where Shella, the same place as the others.’
‘You’re not allowed to go outside. How many times have we been told it’s dangerous? You could have brought the sickness back.’ Shella stood straight, hands on her hips; for only eleven years old, she looked menacing.
Chazeen smiled. ‘But I didn’t, I’m fine! Anyway I’m sure there is more. I promise once we get all the information we can take it to the Elders and show them what it was like.’
‘I’m still not happy.’
‘Look Shella, they had dragons.’
The children all looked down at the words that were faded and barely readable.
‘What’s a dragon?’ asked Poffin, a dirty faced child of nine.
Chazeen laughed, ‘Here, I’ll show you.’ Reaching into her cloth bag that hung around her neck she pulled out another book. Quickly looking through it she found a picture and showed it to the others. ‘Here, it says dragon.’ The large green scaled beast dominated two pages, its head tilted back breathing flames into the sky. The word Dragon was scribed above in gold lettering.
‘It looks huge, look at its wings,’ Poffin gasped as his face lit up in the flickering light.
‘They were big enough to carry people into the sky on their backs and could breathe flames hotter than our forge.’
‘Did you see any when you were outside?’ asked Shella, caught up in the moment along with the others.
‘No. They’re all dead now. There’s nothing left.’
The children were crestfallen at this news. ‘We should be getting back, time is moving,’ Shella said, back in her authoritative voice.
Chazeen looked around and nodded, putting the books back in her cloth bag she jumped down onto the old tracks that led to the deep tunnels, the others quickly following her. As they went into the darkness, the last of the flickering light illuminated the peeling painted sign that faintly read King’s Cross Station.
Keith Rowland
is a freelance writer, poet and script writer. He is the author of the upcoming Beautiful Lie Trilogy. It is a story of tragedy, power and oppression in a society controlled by The Leader.
Keith has always been a prolific reader and writer, but since reading Hugh Howey’s Wool Trilogy, has taken what was once his hobby to the next level. As well as the Beautiful Lie Trilogy he is also working on several other books including a YA trilogy about pirates and several single fantasy novels.
Keith is currently living with his partner, Susan, and they constantly discuss adopting a pet but are unable to decide what animal they would like. As well as writing, Keith has just completed his degree and is looking for a creative working environment that plays loud music.
His goal as an author is to help inspire people and tap into their emotions, making them laugh or cry, but mostly to think about what is the truth.
Keith Rowland’s Website
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Fantasy — Magic Realism
Embracing Sorrow
Ruth Nestvold
He went to bed with Sorrow and woke up with a raging headache and Sorrow nowhere to be found. Where had she gotten to this time? Will had tried to make it clear that he needed to be able to rely on her, needed to at least know where she would be from day to day.
And here the day arrived and she was gone.
He would not pine, not for Sorrow, not again, no sirree. Instead, he took two Ibus and fixed a breakfast of bacon and eggs, sunny-side-up — for one. The Ibus started going to work on his hangover, and as he turned the bacon in the pan, he actually found himself whistling, “Running Down a Dream” instead of his favorite, “Behind Blue Eyes”.
The morning sun poured through the kitchen window, while the coffee maker gurgled and sputtered with the last drops through the filter. Will sat down at the kitchen table with a heaping plate of protein dripping with fat and a cup of strong black coffee. He propped the newspaper up against yesterday’s bottle of Coke. In Geneva, leaders of 120 nations had decided on a plan for permanent world peace. A doctor in Baltimore had discovered the cure for cancer. In Washington, the NRA lobby had agreed to a ban of assault weapons.
Will choked on his coffee and shot out of his chair. Perhaps Sorrow had left for good? But what would he do without her, with nothing but happy monotony for the rest of his life? No one could live that way.
He had to find her. Sorrow could be found anywhere: at a wedding or at a funeral, in the torn lottery ticket in the gutter, in the last bottle of beer of the night before, in the hum of tires on a highway. But where, where was Sorrow most likely to be found?
A high school, that was it. Teenagers were depressed; they knew that adults were idiots, the world would never get better, and their hormones were totally wonky to boot. It was the origin of Weltschmerz. Misery was programmed, and Sorrow would be there.
He tossed back the rest of his coffee and headed for the nearest high school.
He didn’t have far to look. Sorrow was hanging out on the steps of the main entrance in the guise of a Goth chick, dressed all in black, dark makeup around her eyes that made it look like she’d been in a brawl, and her hair dyed black and teased all over the place. Of course, Sorrow herself was smiling, while everyone around her had attitude up to their eyelids and frowns that could kill a peacock at fifty yards.
When she saw Will approaching, she began to shake her head, her smile turning wry.
She met him halfway, still shaking her head, her hair standing out like spikes. “Will, Will, Will. When are you going to realize that you’re better off without me?”
“Who are you to decide what I’m better off without? My needs are my own.”
She sighed. “I guess.”
“Are you coming back to me now?”
Sorrow just nodded.
The next morning, Will’s cornflakes were soggy as soon as he poured milk on them. He spread the newspaper out on the table to see that the UN refused to recognize the Geneva resolution. The cure for cancer had been a hoax, and the NRA had issued a denial of the report from the previous day.
He looked across the kitchen table. Sorrow was back, and all was right with the world.
Ruth Nestvold
wanted to be a writer since the age of six (or a singer, an actress, or President of the United States), but for many years she put practical pursuits first and writing fiction second. After completing a Ph.D. in literature, she took time off from academic pursuits to attend the Clarion West Writers Workshop, a six week “boot camp” for writers of science fiction and fantasy. She learned more there than she could have dreamed possible, changed her priorities, and gave up theory for imagination.
Two years later, she sold her first short story to the acclaimed science fiction magazine, Asimov’s. Since then, she has sold over forty pieces of short fiction to a variety of markets, including Baen’s Universe, Strange Horizons, Scifiction, F&SF, Realms of Fantasy, and several year’s best anthologies. She has been nomin
ated for the Nebula, the Sturgeon, and the Tiptree awards. She taught creative writing for a semester at the University of Stuttgart, participates regularly in online writing workshops, and founded the Villa Diodati workshop for English-speaking writers of speculative fiction in Europe.
In 2007, the Italian translation of her novella Looking Through Lacewon the Premio Italia for best international work. Her novel Yseult appeared in German translation as Flamme und Harfe with Random House Germany and has since been translated into Dutch and Italian. She started out as an indie author with the first book of the Pendragon Chronicles in 2012.
Ruth Nestvold’s Website
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Gay Romance
Reading Material
P.D. Singer
When Bricio came into the bedroom, he found Ed stretched out on the bed fully clothed but with bare feet. His toes curled periodically, attracting attention to the movement. From there, Bricio let his gaze travel up the length of denim-clad legs, across the bulge in the jeans, the flat plane of belly, and the broad chest, up to his lover’s face. Total concentration there—Ed didn’t even look up until Bricio ran a tickling finger across the bottom of Ed’s foot. He levitated twice as high for being jerked out of his reading material.
“Good book?” Bricio didn’t really have to ask—Ed wasn’t much of a reader, but the intensity he’d fixed on the oversized volume said a lot. Bricio could see the back blurb from the foot of the bed.
"Very good book. C’mere and read it with me.” Ed looked up with that hungry look he didn’t usually give to words on paper. He stroked the pillow next to him, making Bricio toe off his boots and slide across the comforter. Slipping his arm over Ed’s shoulders, he settled in to see what had his man so fascinated.
